Without waiting for the permission of his host, D’Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay.
“Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan, emptying his glass, “that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.”
He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.
At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.
“Ah, monsieur!” cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master, “here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in.”
“What’s the matter now, Planchet?” demanded D’Artagnan.
“Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, monsieur, the visit I received in your absence.”
“When?”
“About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”
“Who has been here? Come, speak.”